Present Tense is an aspiring brewery in Chicago looking to bring English style cask ales to those that call Chicago home.

Wednesday, November 4, 2015

The Pub

Golden Fleece - York

The large block letters illuminated from above by two large lamps,
radiating in the dark street as a beacon of comfort to the weary
sojourners. The name of the establishment
enshrined by some historical significance, but long lost through the
generations of false stories and over embellishments. No doubt, a good reason exists for the name,
but now it just seems like a funny euphemism or novel alliteration; however, it
is the essence of tradition in this land – an eye catching, nonsense name. Jutting out from the ancient building a sign
drops from a wooden beam – many times remade, but always retaining its
character – hand painted, it provides the necessary imagery to explain the name
of this worthy establishment. Completing
the backdrop of this building, a row of flowers dropping down from wooden
planters precisely dividing the second floor from the first in a way that
steals the cartoonish charm from the painted sign and provides a proper garnish
to a proper English pub.

Blue Bell - York

The front door, a solid wood door, hewn many ages ago, painted
dark brown with heavy metal fixtures, eeks open to a small foyer presenting two
doors in stark contrast. The right door…the
left door – the ultimate decision. There is certainly a good explanation for
the two separate doors; however, I have yet to hear it. These doors present a confusing option to a
newcomer, but certainly they provide a distinct layout for a very traditional
pub – dividing the pub into two opposing rooms, one noticeably smaller than the
other with the prominently undersized bar situated in the middle, open to both
rooms. There is no attempt at convenience
in this establishment, and because of that it feels as though the privilege is
all yours to be a part of it.

Standing in complete confusion in the foyer, my blank
face snapped back into reality when the right door opened up and a couple guys
walked out, providing me a brief glimpse in the room. I held the door open and gave the lads some
room to exit then proceed to take the opportunity to take up the freshly
vacated spots in packed room. No more
than 10 foot by 10 foot square with a few tables, chairs surrounding them,
cushioned bench seats, upholstered in red cloth, lined the front wall of the
room below large paneled windows looking out onto the street. The dark wood interior, the well-worn, dark
brown painted bar with 6 hand pulls and several taps – it was described as a
characteristic Edwardian interior…whatever that meant.

Blue Bell - York

Entering through the door, I had to carefully walk around
the man sitting at the round table right in front of the entrance – the
necessary obstacle to maneuver for admission to the bar. Finding my footing and securing a sure stance
to get to the other side of the room – I couldn’t help but feel like I had just
become the center of attention. All eyes
were on me, the new denizen of this hallowed place. The uncomfortableness of the place only
momentary – the stares, not malevolent – simply the nature of a pub. Half the result of the environment – a small
room with towering ceilings which caused an illusion of the walls bending
slightly over everyone to secure them in this cozy, tight knit atmosphere able
to instantly recognize a newcomer. And
half the result of the unspoken creed that a man walking into a pub enters with
respect of the people already investing their time there – the process having
played itself out over and over since the beginning of time… a price of a pint is
the investment, finding a seat secures your contentedness until you chose to
give it up. If I were sitting in the seats
like those staring at me, I would do the exact same thing – stare down the new intruder,
the momentary disruption to the karma of the room.

A pint of Roosters

I cozied to the bar with as much confidence as I could
muster considering the place being as far from welcoming as possible. The bartender, noticing my gaze upon the beer
options at hand, was instantly at my service… “Ya alright?” – the casual
greeting that inquires of the current state of my being; in other words, “How
are you doing?”…“Do you need anything?”…“How can I help you?” I said, I’ll have a pint of Roosters. The bartender grabs a large glass from behind
the bar and holds it at a slight angle, sparkler near the bottom of the glass,
while the other hand grasps firmly on the top of the black hand pull. The shiny black curved surface of the hand
pull embellished with polished brass trim standing tall on the bar, a sturdy
pump clip snapped around the base of the hand pull labeling the contents
flowing through the lines from the cask in the cellar into the glass. The bartender pulls the top of the hand pull
toward him with a slightly exerted effort, just enough work to require of the
bartender in preparing a proper pint – the dues he pays as a symbol for the
work that was put into the brewing of the beautiful beer – nothing that is
worthwhile in this world is easy. One
pull, beer spraying from the sparkler directly into the bottom of the glass;
two pulls, the beer gradually filling up the clear glass with a swirling dark
golden and creamy white hue; three pulls, rising closer to the top; four pulls,
the creamy head slowly rushing over the edge of the glass. The bartender sets the glass beside the hand
pull and says “That will be three pound sixty.”
I pull out of my wallet five quid and the bartender goes back to collect
my change. I continue to stand and
admire the glass. A pint is a beautiful
thing – blankets of air cascading through the beer as the liquid begins to
settle at the bottom in a crystal clear liquid, a thick creamy head like whipped
cream forming on the top of the beer as the air works its way up to the top of
the glass – floating in waves, swaying to the perfect rhythm of the delicate
body of the beer, the sheets of air layered in the fluidity of the beer to give
a depth and texture that can only be seen to be believed. The bartender tops up the beer with another
half pull to fill the entire glass with a perfectly clear, dark golden beer.

Red Lion - York

I find my way to an open seat - open, a generous term. There is space for me, however, in a tiny
room, filled with people, personal space is redefined. Sharing tables with complete strangers
becomes customary, overhearing everyone’s conversation, unavoidable. The one thing uniting everyone – the pint in
hand. I am no longer the center of
attention. I have found my seat. I have paid my dues. I am now one with the crowd, having made the
necessary investment to claim the seat as my own. The pint is now my time piece – instead of a
pile of sand building up in an hour glass, the ever dropping level of liquid in
my glass marks the consumption of my time. With every drink the thick head of foam laces
a beautiful story down the inside of the glass – leaving its indelible mark
full of mystery and intrigue longing to be understood like the lines of a palm. The bottom of the glass is not the end. The bottom of the glass is an opportunity for
a new beginning – the process repeats itself – “Ya alright?”…1,2,3,4 pulls…the
masterpiece paints itself again in the pint glass, and I lose myself in the
moment unfolding all around me in the crowded pub.